


'cause I know that it's delicate

by noqueenbutthequeeninthenorth



Series: it's delicate (isn't it?) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode: s06e04 Book of the Stranger, F/M, Missing Scene, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 03:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17399045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noqueenbutthequeeninthenorth/pseuds/noqueenbutthequeeninthenorth
Summary: Set during "Book of the Stranger," immediately after Sansa arrives at the Wall.He goes to build the fire back up, and for a few minutes he stays silent, kneeling at the hearth, not looking at her. Finally he clears his throat. “I know,” he begins, “it’s not exactly what you’re used to — ”“You’d be surprised what I’m used to.”





	'cause I know that it's delicate

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** This fic goes into some detail about Ramsay's abuse of Sansa and the physical (as well as psychological) repercussions, and parts of it may be upsetting.

“You’ll be safe here,” Jon says, once he’s escorted her past the dirty, staring men, and into a dark room with a dying fire.

It’s a large room, but a modest one, even compared to the sparse chamber (the _cell_ , she can’t help but think) she’d been kept in at Winterfell: nothing hangs on the walls, no tapestries or sconces, and everything, from the broad table littered with books and scrolls to the cushionless wooden chairs, is unadorned, unassuming; there is no gold filigree here, as in King’s Landing, and no ornate carvings — no fierce lions, no flayed men. No wolves either.

“This is your room?”

“Aye.”

He goes to build the fire back up, and for a few minutes he stays silent, kneeling at the hearth, not looking at her. Finally he clears his throat. “I know,” he begins, “it’s not exactly what you’re used to — ”

“You’d be surprised what I’m used to.”

She watches his shoulders tense and curses herself. That’s not what she meant to say.

Quickly, she tries again: “It’s fine, Jon. it’s wonderful.” He lifts those dark eyes of his toward her, and she offers a smile. “I’m warm. I’m with you. I couldn’t ask for more.”

When the fire flares back to life, he drags a chair close to the hearth for her to sit in. She stretches her hands out to warm her stiff fingers. The heat is almost too good. It almost hurts.

She closes her eyes, letting the heat of the fire thaw her face, her ears, the frozen tip of her nose. Ice melts from her eyelashes; her cheeks are wet. At some point, a weight settles around her shoulders, something heavy and warm, and then — then she is asleep.

*

When she jolts awake, she finds Jon already at her side, murmuring reassurances. “It’s okay,” he says, taking her hands in his own. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” His gaze burns into her, earnest and familiar, even after all these years.

Although she’s thought of him often of late, she’d almost forgotten what he looked like, only able to picture his soft eyes, his black hair, the quiet gravity of his presence. She doesn’t know what to make of the man he is now, still dark and serious, but with new scars on his face and circles under his eyes, his weariness evident no matter how he tries to smile. Life has not been a song for him either. He looks like Father, and a bit like Robb, and he is more handsome than she ever could’ve imagined. The sight of him is precious to her as it never was before. 

The thought shames her. She hopes he knows that although they were never close, she never despised him. She was proud and foolish, and she kept her distance, but mostly she had wanted to make her mother happy. Catelyn Stark was the only member of the family who appreciated Sansa’s hard work and who didn’t laugh at her naive dreams of the south. Catelyn was the only one who cared that Sansa behaved like a lady, while Arya could turn up with messy hair and a muddy face and Father would still always love her the best.

Sansa had been jealous. She wanted to be someone’s favorite. Was she not the eldest girl, and the prettiest, and the best at sewing and dancing and singing? She’d been a silly girl, believing that any of that mattered. She told herself that her mother’s love was worth the little pang she felt when all of her siblings laughed and played together — all but her.

Jon had been a kind boy, though, despite any wrongs she may have done him. He stuck up for her when Theon teased her, and once, when she was terribly ill and confined to her room, he’d snuck her a lemon cake from supper. She remembers that.

“Did I sleep long?”

“Not long,” he answers. “But you must be exhausted. Take my bed.”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t sleep much anymore.

“I’m all right now. But do you think … ” She licks her chapped lips, still trying to work out what it is that she wants, and what she’s willing to ask of him. “Would it be possible for me to have a bath? And fresh clothing? I’d like to feel clean again.”

As clean as she _can_ feel, at least.

“Of course,” he says at once, already rising, but then he falters. “Uh.”

“What is it?”

“I haven’t got anything for you to wear. I can send to Molestown for a dress.”

“Later,” she decides. “Right now, anything will do. I’ve been in this dress since — ” 

She closes her mouth so fast her teeth snap together, but he seems to understand, because he nods sharply and wrenches his door open, ordering whoever stands in the hallway outside to fetch a tub. “Bring it in here,” she hears him say, “she’ll be staying here,” and another voice answers, too low to be heard, though she thinks she catches the rumble of a laugh. 

Whatever the other man says causes Jon to hiss, “She’s my _sister_.”

After he closes the door again, he kneels before a large wooden chest sitting at the end of his narrow bed. Unlatching it, he withdraws a tunic and a pair of trousers, which he sets, folded, atop the bed. He avoids her gaze. “Hopefully that’ll fit.”

“They’ll be perfect.”

Two bearded men with curious, roaming eyes arrive carrying a large tub for her to wash in, and soon thereafter, hot water to fill it. There is a sliver of soap whose provenance she would probably prefer not to know, and after a moment of indecision, Jon himself finds a clean linen cloth among his things for her to wash with.

The gazes of the two men set her skin crawling, and she huddles deeper into the damp-smelling furs that Jon must’ve draped across her shoulders as she slept. It’s not their fault, the men. For all she knows they are perfectly nice men, chivalrous and sweet-tempered, and they certainly seem respectful enough toward Jon, but still — she wishes they would not look at her. 

Once the tub is full and steaming, Jon orders the men to voice to leave, and they slip back out the door with a muttered, “Yes, Lord Commander.”

He gives their retreating backs a look she cannot read, a purse-lipped little frown, but then he clears his throat and turns to her. “Do you have everything you need? I’ll leave you to, uh … ”

“I’d like to bar the door.”

His brow furrows, but he nods. “‘Course. Go ahead. And I’ll be right outside. I won’t let anyone disturb you. All right?”

Part of her is terrified of letting him out of her sight for fear that he will vanish. That she is still trapped at Winterfell, and Jon is just a dream of freedom. But the weight of his cloak steadies her, and she breathes deep, reminding herself that she is brave, she is strong, she is a survivor. And right now, she is safe.

“All right.”

Once the door closes behind him, she slides the bar into place and, with a shaky exhale, begins to undress.

It hurts, taking off her clothes. The filthy dress is no great difficulty, except that she must twist at the waist to unlace herself, and her aching body protests each movement, so it takes her longer than it should. But she’s grown used to that. The only help offered her at Winterfell was Myranda, whose touch could be crueler than Ramsay’s, or Theon, whose shame hung about him so thick it almost choked her. 

Her shift, however, is a problem. It sticks to her skin where reopened wounds, not to mention those that had never closed at all, bled fresh warm blood during the fall and flight from Winterfell. When she tries to peel the shift from her back, she hisses out a sharp breath, much louder than she intended.

From the other side of the door, she hears Jon’s pacing feet slow to a halt, but he doesn’t say anything. After a moment, his steps resume.

She gives up on the shift. Instead, she removes her smallclothes, her stomach churning at the sight of blood. Not her moonblood, she knows. That has already passed. No, this is yet more damage wrought by Ramsay and exacerbated by the long ride north. She’s ached between her legs for days and days, and when she stopped to relieve herself there was blood in her waste, but she knew better than to complain and simply covered it over with snow. There was nothing to be done. 

Now, though, this stained garment is one more reminder of where she has been. Of all that has happened. She throws the smallclothes into the fire and watches them blacken. She’ll sew more.

When the water has cooled enough not to scald her, she sinks into the bath, her shift riding up a little to expose her scarred thighs. She tries not to look at them. The red-brown stains on her white shift fade and bloom as the water soaks through the linen, and in time she is able to pull it off, tossing it over the edge of the tub with a wet plop. She slides into the tub further, submerging her breasts, her shoulders, the water stinging all the places where Ramsay’s knife marked her. Wetting the cloth provided to her, she scrubs herself hard, as if she could scrub him from her body, and when she brings the linen between her legs, it hurts but she doesn’t stop.

By the time she begins washing the filth from her hair, combing her fingers through matted locks and scraping her nails along her scalp, the water has begun to cool. Only when she starts to shiver does she at last leave the tub.

Thank the gods, there is no mirror in Jon’s room. She has not seen her naked body in its entirety since her marriage. She never wants to see it again.

She pulls on Jon’s clothes, soft and clean, drawing the trousers up over her bare bottom, securing them with a belt she finds among Jon’s things. The tunic hangs loose, too, and even though she’s taller than him now, the sleeves still reach past her hands. She rolls them up until her wrists peek out.

For a long moment, she debates what to do with her stained shift and the blood-tinged linens. They are too wet to be thrown in the fire, but nor can she simply hang them to dry where Jon will see them, evidence of her sorry state. She settles for wringing them out over the tub and folding them in an inconspicuous stack near the hearth.

At last she unbars the door and calls, “Jon, you can come in now.”

He cracks the door open wide enough to poke his head through it, and when he catches sight of her, one corner of his mouth lifts. He says, “Ghost is out here. Mind if I let him in?”

 _Ghost_. She nods eagerly and when the door opens a little further, the direwolf comes stalking in, enormous and beautiful, his white coat gleaming. He looks at her with his red eyes, and begins nosing at her hip until she strokes his muzzle. He recognizes her. She’s certain of it. 

“I never thought I’d see one again,” she tells Jon, unable to help the hysterical little giggle that bubbles out of her. 

She buries her hand sin Ghost’s thick fur, kneeling down to press her cheek to his coat, and she lets herself pretend for just a moment that it is Lady at her side, Lady into whose warmth she is leaning.

“Sansa.” Jon’s voice cracks, and when she looks at him, his expression is pained. “What happened?”

*

“Where do you want me to begin?”

They’ve settled beside the fire again, Ghost curled at Sansa’s feet. Jon’s asked a steward to bring some soup, once it’s been heated up, but for now all he can offer her is a cup of water. She sips it, staring into the flames.

“I don’t know,” he says after a long moment, voice rough. 

She could tell him about Lady. She could tell him about the day their father died, or all the times Joffrey had her stripped and beaten in the throne room. She could explain about her marriage to Tyrion, or her flight to the Eyrie, or what happened the day Lysa Arryn went through the Moon Door.

Maybe she will, in time.

But there are other things he needs to know first.

“If you don’t want to tell me,” Jon begins, when the silence has stretched on for more than a minute, but she shakes her head.

“No. You should know. He’ll be after me.”

“Who?”

“Ramsay Bolton.” The words taste bitter but she spits them out. “My husband.” 

Before he can respond with more than a sharp intake of breath, she continues, “I was sold to the Boltons by Petyr Baelish.” Keeping her eyes lowered, she tries to tell the story as dryly as she can. “Littlefinger made it seem … It doesn’t matter. I was a fool to trust him.” A deep inhale. She made it out. She won’t break now. “I was married to Roose Bolton’s son and made a prisoner in my own home. For so many years, all I dreamed of was going back to Winterfell, and once I was there, all I wanted was to escape it.”

There’s a tense pause as she finally lifts her gaze to meet his, but what she sees when she looks at him isn’t what she expects: his mouth is set in a fierce line and his eyes are blazing, and yet his anger doesn’t frighten her, as anger so often can. It is not her that he’s angry with. And when he speaks, his voice is gentle: “Sansa, I’m so sorry.”

Part of her wants him to take her hands again, to sweep her up in his strong arms. If only he could hold her and she didn’t have to tell him anything. She does not want his pity, only his friendship. His affection. He is her brother. He is the last piece of home that is left to her.

“Did you really not know? I was at Winterfell for months.”

He shakes his head, swallowing. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “This far north, news comes late if it comes at all. And I’ve been — ” He frowns. “ — distracted.”

She doesn’t know exactly what to make of his hesitation, but she can guess what he means. He’s been busy, leading men and fighting wildlings. There’s no reason to expect he paid attention to the whereabouts of his least-loved sibling.

“I know you’ve got more important things to think about,” she says. “You’re Lord Commander.” She can’t suppress a smile then. “That’s amazing. Father would be so proud.”

He ducks his head, the tips of his ears reddening. “No,” he says. “He wouldn’t.” He doesn’t give her a chance to object, suddenly asking: “How did you escape?”

Sighing, she steels herself. “With Theon.”

“ _Theon_?”

She knows how it must sound. First, she married the son of the man who murdered Robb, and then she ran away with Theon, who betrayed him.

“He was Ramsay’s prisoner too,” Sansa tries to explain. “Ramsay tortured him. Ramsay broke him.”

“Good.”

“No. It’s not,” she snaps, her voice harsher than she intended. Color rises to her cheeks. “You can’t know what it was like. Ramsay was a monster. The things he was capable of … ” She tries to hide her shudder. “Theon didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that. He betrayed Robb, I know he did, but he didn’t kill Bran and Rickon. He didn’t. They’re still alive.”

She thinks again of the two boys Theon murdered in her brothers’ stead. They too may have been someone’s brother, someone’s son. They deserve justice.

But hasn’t Theon been punished enough?

She wonders if he’s on his way home. She wonders if he’s still alive, or if the cold has killed him by now — or worse. She can only hope that Ramsay did not find him. Let him freeze if he must die, but do not let Ramsay ever touch him again.

“He did terrible things.” She keeps calm this time. “I’m not denying that. But he helped me escape Ramsay. We jumped from the walls of Winterfell together. We couldn’t stand it any longer. We thought we’d die, but that was better than the alternative. Only the snow saved us. There was so much snow.” Part of her still can’t believe that they survived the fall. “Theon would’ve died to keep me safe. He’s the one who told me to go to you, before Brienne found us. He said that you would protect me from Ramsay.”

A long pause as Jon’s jaw clenches and unclenches. Finally, he says, “He hurt you.”

“Theon never — ”

“Not him.”

“Oh.” She worries her hands together, swiping her thumb back and forth over her dry knuckles. “Ramsay. Yes.”

His nostrils flare, but he sits still, almost rigid, in his seat. “Did he — ?” He cuts himself off, turning to face the fire. Not able to look at her. “Sorry. I only mean, if you’re hurt — ” He clears his throat and begins to mumble, barely audible, “Or if you need anything … if you need moon tea … ”

“ _No_.” Face burning, eyes stinging, she tries to keep her composure. “No, that’s not necessary.”

“We don’t have a maester here right now,” she listens to him tell her. “But I’ll find someone to look after you if you need it. There’s a woman. She’s … ” His voice is odd, and when she dares to glance up at him, he’s clenching his jaw again. “I don’t know. She might be able to help.”

“I’m fine.” She makes herself lift her tankard to take another sip of water. “I promise. Nothing a hot meal and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

A lie, of course, but what else is there to do? There’s no maester anyway. Even if there were, she has no desire to see one. She hasn’t trusted one since poor, dead Maester Luwin.

In King’s Landing, under the guise of examining her, Pycelle’s hands would touch her child’s body and proclaim her healthy, no matter what bruises Joffrey’s Kingsguard had left on her skin. She saw him as infrequently as she could. He was no healer. Later, at Winterfell, she had to learn to endure Maester Wolkan’s balms and stitches, whenever Ramsay decided — or his father demanded — that she ought to be seen to. When she still hadn’t conceived after three months, they sent her to Wolkan again, and the maester checked between her legs and pressed on her scarred tummy and looked at her pityingly before he offered her a tea that was meant to help with her fertility, but no one ever forced her to drink it. Roose Bolton paid little attention to her, distracted by Stannis Baratheon’s approaching army and the task of impregnating his own wife. And Ramsay …

In truth, Ramsay did not want her to get with child. Not really. He often took her in ways that were not conducive to conception. He preferred to spill outside of her, on her, in order to humiliate her. He liked her to take him in her mouth. He liked using objects to violate her, liked to find something that he knew would be especially painful and laugh as it made her bleed. He liked her hurt and her shame, liked to cut her and burn her and bite her, and surely he knew that once she was pregnant, he would have to leave her be until she gave birth. That, at least, his father would require of him. The Boltons would have their heir to Winterfell.

Realizing that Jon is calling her name, she blinks up at him. She’s gripping the tankard so hard it’s shaking.

“Are you all right?”

She musters a smile, easing her grip. “I will be. Now, tell me how you came to be Lord Commander. Tell me how you are.”

“Sansa, I’m … ” He sighs. “I’m not Lord Commander anymore. I’m done with the Night’s Watch.”

“What do you mean, done?”

His intent gaze doesn’t waver from the flickering fire, and the light of the flames dances across his handsome, furrowed brow. “Something happened.” He inhales deeply through his nose before scrubbing his hands over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes and groaning. “I don’t know how to say it. It’ll sound mad.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sansa … ”

She could leave him his secrets, and perhaps she should, but instead she echoes the very question he asked of her: “What happened?”

He doesn’t look at her as he leans forward, using the poker to stoke the fire, watching it leap in its grate. Ignoring her, she thinks. Pretending he hasn’t heard her, or maybe he really hasn’t, too consumed by his own thoughts.

But then he tilts his face toward hers, all lit up now with golden firelight, and he looks at her with such a lost expression that her heart twists. “You asked for it,” he says, his mouth twitching beneath his beard, his eyes deeper than the drifts of snow that broke her leap to freedom. And he begins.

*

“Where will you go?” she asks, suddenly shy. He died, actually _died_ , and was brought back to life, revived from the dead with magic far beyond her understanding. So if he wants to sail away to the warmth and sunshine of the Summer Isles, or to leave her behind and find some pretty young maiden to marry and start a new life with, she can’t really blame him. If he wants to devote himself to this priestess who resurrected him and begin worshiping her strange fire god, she supposes that would make sense too.

But that’s not what he says he wants. Instead, his soft gaze pins her in place and he says, “Where will _we_ go?” as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. As if there was never any doubt.

*

That night, with soup warm in her belly and resolve firm in heart, Sansa curls up in Jon’s narrow bed, beneath the furs, and watches the silhouette of his body where he sits before the fireplace. The shape of Ghost looms beside him, little more than a pale pile of fur in the darkness.

Home, she thinks. This is home now. _They_ are home now.

At least until she can convince Jon to help her take back Winterfell.

“You’ll stay here tonight?” she asks, and he glances over his shoulder at the sound of her whisper. Even in the dim light, she can make out the curve of his lips — not quite a smile, but gentle in ways she hasn’t known in years.

“If that’s what you want.”

She nods. “Please. Just for tonight.”

“Of course, Sansa.” The northern burr of his voice speaking her name still thrills her. _Home_. “Whatever you need.”

He turns his face away again, back to whatever thoughts are plaguing him. Is he brooding over the men who betrayed him? Is he missing Arya, and wishing she were here instead of Sansa? Is he wondering if it’s possible for them to defeat the Boltons and reclaim Winterfell?

Folding her hands across her stomach, she stares up at the ceiling, body tense and breath shallow, unwilling to let either memories or sleep overtake her. All of her pains have come into excruciating focus again, the heat of the hearth too far to soothe them: her joints are stiff in the cold, even beneath the furs; her hips, in particular, ache. Sometimes she thinks she can still feel Ramsay’s fingers biting into her skin.

On the journey north, when they had no choice but to rest for a few hours, Sansa would lie near where Brienne kept watch, close enough that Sansa could hear her breathe, in and out, in and out, steady and safe. Close enough she knew that Brienne could protect her.

She could ask Jon where Brienne is now. She too will have been offered food, a bath, a private room, but Sansa knows if she sent for her, Brienne would come in an instant. Brienne would watch over her, sword in hand, ready to defend Sansa with her life.

But Brienne has slept even less than Sansa these past few days, and the truth is that Sansa doesn’t need guarding right now. Bolton’s men cannot get her here. Indeed, any man — be he a Brother of the Night’s Watch, a wildling, or an outrider from Winterfell — who tried to make his way into this room would have to face Jon and Ghost. That ought to be enough.

Still, Sansa lies shivering in bed, toes and fingertips like ice, watching the shadows of the fire ripple across the ceiling, and occasionally hearing a low cough or the crackle of a new log being fed to the flame. She concentrates on those sounds, regular and soothing, so unlike her cold and brutal bridal chamber.

She doesn’t know how late it is when she whispers, “Jon?” The sky through the window is still dark, and the fire still going strong. She still has not slept.

His seat creaks. “Sansa? Are you okay?”

Sitting up, she is surprised to find him on his feet, facing her, still across the room but attention drawn entirely to her. Some impulse she cannot name compels her to pat the lumpy mattress and say, “Come here.” He doesn’t move. “There’s room enough for us both.”

He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh, I don’t think — I don’t think that’s a good idea. It wouldn’t be — ”

“Wouldn’t be what?”

“Proper.”

She could laugh — or cry. Propriety has nothing to do with her anymore. Nothing Ramsay ever did to her was proper. Nothing Littlefinger, or Cersei, or Joffrey ever did was proper either. _Proper_ doesn’t matter when you’re a hostage, a prisoner, a wife.

Softly, she murmurs, “Please. I don’t care about that. I just … I need … ”

But she doesn’t know what she needs. As a little girl, she’d crawled into Robb’s bed sometimes when she’d had a nightmare, but she’d never turned to Jon for that kind of comfort. Besides, she’s not a little girl anymore, and all that has happened is not just a dream.

She sighs. “Never mind. I’m sorry."

For a moment she watches him hesitate, certain that he will nod and return to his seat at the hearth, but then he takes a step forward, then another. Slowly, tentatively, he approaches, until he’s drawn close enough that she can see his wary eyes in the darkness.

She pretends like this is normal, scooting over in the too-small bed to give him roughly half of the mattress, lifting the furs in invitation. It will be close quarters, but she already knows that she will sleep better with him there. Ramsay never slept nestled beside her — only Arya and Robb and sometimes Shae had done that. Only people she’s loved.

He balances on one foot then the other as he tugs his boots off, setting them neatly at the foot of the bed, before removing his leather jerkin and setting it atop the wooden chest. His raised eyebrows are a question that she answers with a nod, and then he climbs into bed beside her, holding himself stiffly on his side, careful not to touch her and yet still close enough that she can already feel the heat radiating from his body.

His eyes find hers and linger there. Finally, he breathes, “All right?”

She licks her lips. “Yes.”

His gaze holds her a moment more, and then he rolls over, turning his back to her. Even through the coarse fabric of his tunic, the firm planes of his muscles are apparent, his broad shoulders that taper down to his narrow waist. She can see slight movement as he breathes in and out, not quite regular enough for him to be asleep already.

“Jon,” she murmurs, and as he turns his head to respond, she slips her arm under his and around his waist. He stiffens, but she scoots closer still, pressing her cold nose against the back of his neck so that he makes a little yelp at the back of his throat.

“Please, let me,” she says, holding him, hand fisted in the front of his tunic. “You’re so warm.”

She thinks he may leap from the bed at any moment, but then she hears his voice, faint, saying, “Anything, Sansa. Anything you need.”

It takes him another minute or two to relax, but she can feel his heartbeat begin to steady and slow, his breath evening out. Nestled against his back, she lets her eyes fall close at last, inhaling his scent of leather and smoke from the fire, until she is inexorably drawn into the dark realm of her dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> I might write a follow-up from Jon's point of view. Let me know in the comments if that's something you'd be interested in reading!
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift's "Delicate."


End file.
